


I'll tell you how we're wrong enough to be forgiven

by Bibabybi



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Emotional Manipulation, F/F, Kidnapping, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Smoking, Suicide Attempt, Tags to be added as fic goes on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:29:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28260189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibabybi/pseuds/Bibabybi
Summary: Eddie Kaspbrak has spent his entire life listening to his mother, trying desperately to be the good son she so clearly wanted.  He's learned how to fake his way through it over the years.  By his senior year he's able to grin and bear it, able to pretend her smothering nature isn't suffocating him from the inside out.Bill Denbrough's life has been in a downward spiral since his little brother disappeared just over four years ago.  At some point down the line it simply became easier to push his feelings aside than to face them head on.  And by now it's too late to look back.Richie Tozier just wants to get through the school year.  Just wants to graduate and get back to Derry - get back to his friends - as soon as he possibly can.  Instead he finds himself befriending the local hypochondriac, who just might have the answers to Georgie Denbrough's disappearance.
Relationships: Beverly Marsh/Kay McCall, Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Georgie Denbrough/Avery Hockstetter, Mike Hanlon/Ben Hanscom
Comments: 10
Kudos: 20





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> " I’ll tell you how we’re wrong enough to be forgiven. How one night, after backhanding mother, then taking a chain saw to the kitchen table, my father went to kneel in the bathroom until we heard his muffled cries through the walls. & so I learned - that a man in climax was the closest thing to surrender. "
> 
> \- Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous

The thing about starting a new school, in a completely new town, senior year is that Richie doesn’t want to do it. He’s perfectly happy in his old school, in his old town. He’s perfectly happy with his old friends.

_“You’ll make new friends!”_ his mom had insisted.

Which is a wonderful thought. Except Richie doesn’t want new friends. The Losers are like a second family to him, something warm and comforting he could hold onto in his otherwise mess of a life. It’s not like he has a ton of people lining up to be his friends.

However this argument seemed to have no affect on his parents’ decision. His dad has gotten hired at some fancy dentist office way up in New Hampshire, and apparently the loads of money he’ll make are a bit more important than Richie’s teenage angst.

Personally, he believes that’s unfair. But that dentist office is also going to be what puts food on the table so Richie supposes he isn’t in much of a position to argue.

Not that it stops him.

“Do you know how long it took the Losers to like me?” he asks, stretched out along the backseat despite his father’s persistent asking for him to sit up straight. “Never. They still don’t like me.”

Maggie rolls her eyes. “That’s overdramatic. Stan liked you from the moment he saw you.”  
“Untrue!” Richie argues. “Stan likes me least of all. You should have seen him yesterday. Totally coldhearted, didn’t even care that we were leaving. But that’s not the point. The point is,” he gestures wildly at them with a half eaten Twizzler, “I am never going to make new friends.”

“Ya know,” Maggie says, “for some reason I don’t believe you.”

“And I did see Stan yesterday,” Went pipes up. “Totally bawling. You’re a liar, Rich.”

Richie laughs. “Awe, shucks, you caught me. Who would have thought Stanley cared for me after all?”

Maggie glances at him through the rearview mirror, a soft smile on her lips. “You’re gonna be fine, Richie. Everyone will be rushing to check out the new kid. And I promise you can see your friends over winter break.”

Richie lights up. “Yeah? You promise?”

Maggie laughs, the sound soft and gentle. “Of course, Rich.”

“They’ll have to see the new house,” Went adds, turning in his seat to grin widely at his son. “And sit up, we’ll get pulled over if a cop sees you like that.”

“They can’t see me,” Richie argues. “I’m lying beneath the windows.”

“It’s dangerous. If we get in an accident-”

“Hey, mom, do you plan on running us off the road?”

“Stop antagonizing your father,” Maggie says with a chuckle.

“Mom’s a good driver,” Richie smirks. “Better than you.”

“Hey,” Went says lightheartedly, “watch yourself if you ever want a car of your own.”

Richie snaps his mouth shut. He gives his father a nod, alongside a two fingered salute. Richie had gotten his license at seventeen, the last of his friend group, and for a long time he had no need for a car. Everywhere in town was close enough to bike to, Mike and Bill - the only two with their own, shitty, cars - were always happy to pick him up, and Bev could drive herself down from Portland.

But now he’s a whole state away. He’s going to need a car if he doesn’t want to wait for every holiday break before he gets to see his friends. He doesn’t think he would be able to stand not seeing their faces for months on end.

He’s snapped out of his thoughts as the car starts rolling to a stop. When he looks up, a quaint two-story house is bearing down on him. It’s the kind of house that inherently makes you feel welcomed, painted a gentle powder blue with a white door and matching shutters. Richie can imagine himself walking home from school on this street, can imagine himself unlocking the door and walking inside like it’s home.

Except it isn’t home. He’s never going to watch movies with Mike in the basement. He’s never going to smoke out the window with Bev. He’s never going to throw the old baseball around with Ben in the backyard. He’s never going to walk in to find Stan sipping tea at his dining room table, deep in discussion with Richie’s mother (something which has, yes, occurred more than once). He’s never going to wake up at odd hours of the night to find Bill at his bedroom window, begging for him to tag along on an adventure, just like they used to as kids.

His heart squeezes at the thought of Bill. He still feels guilty for leaving when he did, right when his friend needed him the most. But Mike had promised they would look after him, and had sworn to call Richie with updates. Even Bill had just shrugged. As if it were any old Saturday morning.

It didn’t instill Richie with much confidence. But he would have to trust his friends.

He hops out of the car, shouldering his backpack. The evening air is cool against his face, and he has to admit it’s a relief to be out of the car.

“What do you think?”

Richie nearly jumps out of his skin. He had been so deep in thought, he hadn’t even noticed his father sidle up next to him.

“Whoa, sorry,” Went says. “Didn’t mean to scare ya.”

Richie waves his hand dismissively. “It’s nice. Where’s the moving van?”

“Should be here tomorrow,” Went says. “But we have the essentials and sheets to put on the beds, so we should be okay for now.” Richie nods wordlessly. “C’mon, you wanna see the inside?”

The inside is just as nice as the outside. But very bland. Though Richie’s sure it will change within a few weeks, there are currently no decorations. Not only that, but there’s barely any furniture. It’s strange to see. Richie can’t help feeling like a ghost in his own house, like he’s seeing something before he’s supposed to.

“It’s nice,” he says.

Went laughs. “Is that the only descriptive word you know?”

“Oh shut up,” Richie rolls his eyes. “Which one’s my room?”

His new room is bigger than his room back in Derry. And with its current lack of furniture, it looks even bigger. Still, Richie can’t help but feel like the room is closing in on him. The walls are a faded purple and, despite the usual cheery color, Richie can’t help but find it a little depressing. He silently reminds himself to buy some paint within the next week.

But, in the meantime, all he has are the photographs he had placed carefully between the books stuffed inside his backpack. He tugs each book out, flipping through the pages until he finds the pictures. He lays each one on the floor, one next to each other. Only once he’s sure he has them all does he pull out the tape he managed to swipe from the office before the move.

He hangs each photograph on the wall, above the mattress that will serve as the makeshift bed until he can put together his actual bed frame. As he lays down, he can see each of the Losers grinning down on him. It puts him a little more at ease, just to see their stupid faces. He misses them, but he thinks he can do this. He thinks he can survive one school year without them.

-

The next day is dedicated simply to unpacking the moving truck. Which means Richie will be spending the day under the sun, dragging boxes from said truck into their assigned rooms. His dad had insisted it would be a fun, family bonding activity. But all Richie is getting from it are back pains.

“Christ,” he murmurs to himself, “So this is what it feels like to be an old man.”

He leans back against the moving truck with a grunt, pressing himself as close to the side as he can in the hopes of being able to hide from the sun for even a single moment. But it provides little protection, and all he succeeds in doing is making himself into a Richie Pancake.

Which is embarrassing enough on his own. But even worse provided a cute boy has just turned the corner, and is heading straight for Richie.

Richie curses under his breath. With flailing arms, he scrambles to mold his body into a somewhat “cool” position. Though he isn’t sure if it does much good, given how much sweat he’s covered in. It’s practically dripping off him, making his clothes stick to his skin and his hair stick to his forehead. Overall, he’s just really sticky.

_Maybe he likes sweaty guys_ , Richie thinks, only half coherent. _Isn’t that something people might find attractive? Maybe he’ll think I’m super strong or something._

Unfortunately, it appears that this boy is not into sweaty boys. In fact, he seems rather disgusted by the sight of Richie. So disgusted that he looks as if he’s considering crossing the street just to get away from him.

But his curiosity must get the best of him, because a moment later he’s standing at the base of the driveway and raising a hand in a sort of awkward half-way. “Are you the new owners?”

“Nah,” Richie says, because he’s never been able to take a question seriously in his life. “I just decided to buy this big truck and haul these boxes around for fun.”

The boy just stares at him. Doesn’t even laugh. Which is a little rude because clearly his joke was the peak of comedy. “You know the people who lived there before you might have been making meth in their basement.”

It’s so weird and sudden that all Richie can think to say is, “Huh?”

The boy shrugs. “I just thought I would share.”

“Alright,” Richie says, feeling this conversation has suddenly gone very sideways. “I think the people we bought it from were like eighty-”

“Well I don’t have any proof.”

“-I don’t think they could have been making meth.”

“You don’t know that.”

Richie pushes his glasses up his sweaty nose. They slide right back down. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Just so you know.”

“Alright, cool.” Then, just because he needs to get the conversation away from this topic as quickly as possible, “Are you going to Red Oak High?”

The boy hesitates. He hesitates for so long that Richie’s positive he’s never going to answer. They’ll just be trapped here forever, in the purgatory of awkward silence and drying sweat.

Richie nearly cries with relief when the boy finally nods.

“I’m gonna be starting there tomorrow,” Richie says.

“Good for you.”

Richie quirks his eyebrow. “That’s your cue to offer to show me around.”

Something seems to switch in the boy’s head at that moment. Suddenly it seems like he can’t get out of there fast enough, feet already starting to shuffle down the road. “Uh - No thank you.”

“Wh - Really?”

“Sorry, good luck tomorrow!”

And then he’s gone, lost to the world forever. Or, at least, for the day.

-

That night, he claims the landline for himself.

Dialing Stan’s number is exhilarating. He feels like a little kid again, sitting in the back of his father’s car as he waits for them to arrive at his favorite ice cream parlor. Except he likes Stan more than ice cream.

“Hello?”

Richie’s grin widens. “Stan my man! How are you?”

“Richie!” Stan chirps. He sounds undeniably happy, at least three times happier now that he knows it’s Richie calling, and it warms Richie’s heart to know he could have that effect on someone. “How are you? What’s the new house like?”

“Oh, he’s nice,” Richie says. “Very polite, all the moms love him. You can take him anywhere. Someone always has something nice to say about him.”

He can almost hear Stan’s eye roll from here. “Very funny, Rich.”

“You know it.” Richie’s smile flickers. “I miss you. All of you.”

“We miss you too.” Stan’s voice is soft, warming Richie from the inside out like a roaring campfire.

It’s a nice feeling. But it’s far too emotional, and Richie can feel himself starting to squirm uncomfortably. “Awe, shucks. You mean that? You miss little old me?”

“Fuck off, Richie,” Stan teases. “You’re such a dick.”

“You mean I’ve got a big dick.”

“No I most definitely do not.”

Richie hums. “Well did you know the people who lived here before me were making meth out of the basement?”

There’s a pregnant pause. Even through the phone Richie can picture Stan’s pinched lips and furrowed brow. It only makes him miss Stan more. “What the fuck, Richie?”

“I dunno, some conspiracy theory guy came by my house while I was moving boxes inside and told me that,” Richie says.

“Oh, gee, well if _some guy_ told you,” Stan drawls. “That sounds super convincing, Rich, you should definitely continue to listen to him.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking,” Richie says, twirling the telephone cord around his finger. “Hoping to maybe find some leftover meth I can borrow.”

Stan snorts. “You have fun with that.”

“Mhm, I will,” Richie says. “Hey, um-” He releases the cord. Watches it bounce back into place. Starts to twist it all over again. “How’s - um - How’s Bill?”

“He’s fine,” Stan says, voice softer now. “He’s back - back home now.”

“That’s good,” Richie mumbles. He tugs at the cord. “The hospital’s always given me the creeps.”

Stan chuckles mirthlessly. “You’re telling me.” His laughter patters out. “But - um - yeah, he’s fine. Ben’s staying with him tonight. Just - Just to be sure.”

Richie silently watches the cord untwist itself from around his finger. It swings back and forth, slicing through the empty space. “I’m sorry I couldn’t stay longer.”

“It’s not like there was anything you could do,” Stan says. “We all knew it was moving day. No one blames you, Rich.”

“Right,” Richie mumbles. “Well, tell the others I say hi.”

“I will,” Stan says quietly. “They’ll want to talk to you soon.”

Richie shrugs, wondering how he managed to make this conversation so awkward. “I’ll call them tomorrow. It’s getting late now.”

“Yeah, sure,” Stan says. “They’ll understand.”

“Bye, Stan.”

He hangs up before Stan has the chance to respond. The silence seems thicker now, somehow. Almost suffocating.

Robotically, Richie turns out of the room and marches up to his new bedroom. His bed frame is in the corner, still in multiple pieces. He doesn’t bother putting it together as he flops down on the mattress and lets sleep wash over him.

-

The following Monday Richie starts school.

Senior year is terrifying enough, but it increases by tenfold when Richie is reminded that he knows absolutely no one at this school. Well, except for the kid who thinks the old man his parents bought the house from was a meth head. But Richie would like to think he doesn’t count. One conversation - a very weird, unpleasant conversation at that - does not constitute _knowing him_.

The new school is just as shitty as Derry High. The lockers, which were once a beautiful teal color, are worn and faded. Not to mention absolutely filthy. Richie’s the furthest thing from a neat freak, but even he is having second thought about touching them. Unfortunately, they’re not the only part of the school that’s dirty. All of the windows have some sort of liquid smeared on them, making the outside blurry and deformed. The entire building smells vaguely of weed, which only makes Richie miss Beverly and her ever present blunt. And the floor in every other hallway is weirdly sticky. Richie doesn’t even want to think about what that might mean.

But the good news is that he has PE first thing in the morning. His worst class. Eight AM. No friends to help make it even a little bit more enjoyable. Clearly this is going to be a blast.

He bites back a groan of frustration as he opens his locker. At least at Derry High he had his friends. Here all he has is-

“Holy shit. Meth guy!”

The boy blinks at him in shock, hand halfway to his locker. “What?”

“You came by my house yesterday,” Richie says. “I checked the basement, by the way. No meth.”

“Oh.”

“You know-”

“I have to get to class, sorry.”

Richie watches, slack-jawed, as the boy turns on his heel and scurries down the hallway. And all he can think is, _What the fuck?_

With a little shake of his head, he turns back to his own locker. He doesn’t have time to be worrying about this guy anymore. He has to focus on not making a fool out of himself. The last thing he needs is to embarrass himself in his first class.

-

Unfortunately, that’s exactly what he does.

All they’re doing today is running laps. Which, on its own, seems easy enough. But is, one, incredibly awkward when Richie doesn’t know anyone and everyone else seems to have an established running partner. And, two, rather difficult when his legs are as lanky as they are. They seem to trip over something every two feet. Most times he manages to catch himself. Which is still embarrassing, but not nearly as embarrassing as the one time he misses and ends up sprawled out on the track.

He thinks people stop and stare. He can hear their murmuring and shuffling feet all around him. But he can’t really be sure, because his glasses clattered off his face during the fall and landed God knows where.

For a few moments he scrambles around blindly, feeling stupider by the second. Of course this would happen to him. _Of course_ it would. Because that’s just his luck, isn’t it?

A moment later, the blurry outline of his glasses come into view, held out by an even blurrier person-shaped blob. Richie accepts them gratefully, shoving them back onto his face as fast as he possibly can. The no-longer-blurry person - a boy with a bedhead of blonde curls and icy blue eyes - extends his hand which, after a moment of hesitation, Richie accepts.

“What’s your name?” the boy asks as he hoists Richie to his feet.

“Richie.”

The boy turns, shouting across the field, “Hey, coach! I’m taking Richie to the nurse!”

“I don’t think I have to go to the nurse,” Richie says hurriedly, despite the fact that he can feel the slow trickle of blood on his knee and his hand stings in a way that he’s positive means it’s, at the very least, scratched. Despite this, Coach raises his hand to, rather apathetically, gesture them off the field.

“Oh, C’mon, we’re not actually going to the nurse,” the boy says with a sly grin. “I just figured you wouldn’t want to run laps anymore. I know I don’t.”

“You know, actually I think I do need to see the nurse,” Richie says, a smile playing on his lips.

The boy laughs. He waits until they’re out of sight to add, “We can stop by the nurse’s, if you want.” He gestures to Richie’s knee.

“Yeah, that might be nice,” Richie says sheepishly.

“I’m Connor,” the boy says with a little half-smile. “This is your first day, isn’t it?”

Richie nods. “I just moved into the meth house.”

Connor stops to stare at him incredulously. “The _what_ house?”

Richie gestures pathetically. “I dunno. Some guy said people used to make meth in the basement.”

“I think someone lied to you.”

“I think so too, yeah. But it’s a funny name, isn’t it?”

Connor snorts. “Yeah, sure. Hey, you ever smoked before?”

“A couple times,” Richie says with a shrug.

“Cool. You want to now?”

Truthfully, Richie’s never smoked with anyone other than his friends. It seems like a strange thing to do without them. But the offer sounds like the first step towards an actual friendship. And he’ll be damned if he passes up the opportunity.

So five minutes later he’s sitting behind the school building, carefully placing bandages over the scrapes on his knees with a blunt clamped between his lips.

“PE sucks anyway,” Connor says, watching the smoke billow past his lips and disappear into the air.

“All you do is run in circles,” Richie agrees. “Definitely useless.”

“Exactly!”

“I only got stuck in this class because nothing else would work with my schedule,” Richie pouts. He finally finishes putting on the last bandage, and reaches up to pull the blunt away from his mouth. “I thought I had finished my PE credits my sophomore year.”

Connor winces. “Ouch. That’s probably what I should have done but,” he shrugs, “I kept putting it off. Now I’m stuck doing PE my senior year. Super fun.”

Richie hums. “Yeah, that’s my definition of fun.”

“See, you get it,” Connor says, gesturing to him loosely with his blunt. “So where are you from?”

-

The rest of the day isn’t nearly as bad as PE. But it’s still not exactly thrilling. But at least he has a friend now. Or he thinks he does. Connor sat with him during lunch and offered to show him around town, so Richie assumes that’s a good sign. But he hasn’t really bothered to make any close friends since he was fourteen, when him and the rest of the Losers recruited Mike into their group, so maybe he’s a little rusty. Either way, it’s nice to just have someone to talk to.

His last class of the day is english. Richie had never minded english, in fact he often enjoyed analyzing different works or scribbling out essays. The one thing he hated - viscerally hated - was having to sit down and read. Richie’s mind likes to wander, which makes it difficult to just stare at a page for hours on end. Until now he had always borrowed his friends’ notes in order to get by. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to get through the class without them. He supposes he could ask Connor. But something tells him Connor’s going to read even less than Richie.

Instead of dwelling on that, Richie slinks into his chosen seat - something nondescript in the corner of the class, next to the window overlooking the track field. He winces, suddenly imagining someone else sitting in this same seat first period, watching him make a fool of himself. The thought that more people might have witnessed that mishap ties his stomach up in knots. The only comforting thought is that it’s nearly impossible to recognize faces from this distance. But even that doesn’t put him completely at ease.

He turns to face the front of the classroom again. More students are starting to trickle in now, chattering softly as they pick their seats. One of them - to Richie’s either delight or horror, he hasn’t quite decided yet - is Meth Head Guy. He’s clutching the straps of his backpack like a lifeline as he walks, eyes darting furiously from place to place, as if they can’t quite decide on a place to land. A girl bounces along beside him. She’s chattering his ear off, and while he doesn’t appear to be saying anything in response, Richie can see his head bobbing a little to everything she says.

They sit a few rows in front of him. Richie can’t help but feel disappointed they didn’t sit close enough for him to talk to. Meth Head Guy might take the cake when thinking about the weirdest people Richie has ever met, but there’s still something intriguing about him.

“Evening class.”

Richie’s eyes snap away from the boy, as if afraid someone might have caught him staring. The teacher, a lanky man with dark hair and kind eyes, is leaning back against the desk with an old, beat up clipboard in his hand to take roll.

“I hope your summer vacation was relaxing,” the teacher continues. “It’s nice to see some recognizable faces.” A girl in the front row waves excitedly. “Yes, hello, Patty.” The teacher’s welcoming attitude only helps increase Richie’s anxiety. Something about him being the only one not to understand the class’ buzzing excitement sets him on edge. “And nice to see some new faces as well. I look forward to getting to know all of you. For our first reading assignment I’ve put you all into groups of two. You will spend the semester reading and analysing a book of your choosing, and by the time we leave for the holidays you will have formed a presentation to teach the rest of your class about your book.”

There’s a groan from the back of the classroom. “Mister Epping, it's the first day.”

Mister Epping grins easily. “It’ll be an easy day, don’t worry. All you have to do is pick your book.”

Richie can’t help but spare a glance around the classroom, scanning the various faces. He’ll be stuck with one of these people all semester. He can only pray he doesn’t get stuck with a total dick or someone who pawns all the work off on him.

Unfortunately, it seems luck is not on his side. Because when Mister Epping is done calling out names, it turns out the _Eddie Kaspbrak_ Richie has been paired with is none other than Meth Head Guy.

“It’s nice to finally put a name to the face,” Richie says half-heartedly. “So I don’t have to keep calling you Meth Head Guy.”

“Calling me _what_?” Eddie cries out incredulously. “That’s not - I’ve never done meth in my life.”

“I know,” Richie says quickly, even though he didn't really know. “But you had that whole conspiracy theory about my house.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Richie taps his pencil against the desk. “Um - Should we pick out our book?”

Eddie shrugs and wordlessly picks up the sheet of paper Mister Epping had left on their desks. “I don’t think I’m supposed to read many of these.”

Richie quirks an eyebrow. “What do you mean? These are classics.”

“Mom says they have the devil’s work in them,” Eddie says, as casually as if he were discussing what he had for lunch. “But I think _Catcher In The Rye_ is my step-dad’s favorite book. Maybe we could do that?”

“My friend Beverly always said to never trust a man whose favorite book is _Catcher In The Rye_.”

“So you don’t want to read it?”

“Not really.”

Eddie huffs loudly and slumps back in his seat. “Then what are we supposed to read?”

“There’s literally an entire list right in front of us.”

“Yeah but none of them are good.”

“You haven’t even read any of them!”

Eddie gestures lamely. “That’s irrelevant.”

“Okay, well, we have to pick one of them,” Richie says. “So what about _Lord of the Flies_?”

“No!” Eddie shouts, just about startling Richie out of his chair.

“Alright - um - What about _One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest_ .” Eddie shakes his head. “ _Mice and Men_ ?” Eddie shakes his head again. “Christ, you’re impossible. What about _The Great Gatsby_?”

Eddie hesitates for a moment. Then, “That’s a romance novel, isn’t it?”

And it’s not really - at least not according to the way Bill drunk rambled about it a few months back - but Richie really just wants this conversation to be over so he says, “Yeah, sure.”

Eddie nods slowly. “Yeah, okay. That works.”

“Thank God.”

Eddie shoots him a glare but otherwise stays quiet. Richie almost feels bad for the guy. _Almost_. It’s easy to brush those feelings aside when he remembers just how much of a dick Eddie’s been. A really weird dick too. A really weird, evasive dick who’s afraid of classic literature.

As soon as the bell rings, Eddie’s on his feet, backpack slung over his shoulders, and booking it to the door as fast as he possibly can without actually breaking out into a run. Richie scrambles to pack up his own materials, nearly tripping over his own two feet in an attempt to reach him. He quickly falls into step, letting Eddie lead him through the unfamiliar hallways as they weave through the thick crowd of students.

“Hey, so I was thinking maybe we should do some work on this project,” he says. “Get started on the book, maybe start discussing ideas for the presentation-”

“I can’t,” Eddie says quickly. “I have to pick up my step-brother.”

“Oh. Well, maybe tomorrow?”

“Maybe. I have to pick him up then too.”

“Are there any days you aren’t picking him up?” Richie asks impatiently. Eddie shakes his head. “We have to work on this project _sometime_.”

“We can work on it during lunch,” Eddie offers, finally coming to a stop in front of his locker. His hand hovers over the lock. “Can you look away?”

“What? Dude, I’m not gonna steal your locker combination.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Because there’s literally nothing I would want to steal from your locker,” Richie says dryly. “Why would I want a bunch of your textbooks?” Eddie just glares at him. “Fuck it, fine.”

Richie turns away from the locker, instead focusing his task on opening his own locker and shoving his textbooks back inside his backpack. He’s nearly finished, though he’s still struggling to zip his backpack closed, when there’s a sudden _thud_ right next to his ear. Richie yelps, but when he looks up it’s only Connor, grinning wildly at him next to his now shut locker.

“Christ,” Richie mumbles. “You scared me.”

“Sorry,” Connor says, not looking very sorry at all. “You wanna go smoke more?”

“Yeah, sure-”

The locker next to Richie shuts with a _slam_. “That’ll kill you, ya know.”

“Hi, Eddie,” Connor says, seemingly unphased by the interruption. “It’s nice to see you again.” Eddie just huffs and turns on his heel, storming down the hallway. “I don’t think he remembers my name.”

“You know Meth Head Guy?” Richie asks.

“ _That’s_ the meth guy?” Connor exclaims. “Shit, I should have known. Yeah, man, Eddie’s the weirdest fucking person in the whole school.”

“Yeah, he seems kinda jumpy.”

“I think he’s just really sheltered or something. He only talks to this girl from his church, Myra. She’s also kinda weird, but at least she remembers my name.”

“Yeah, that’s nice of her,” Richie says absentmindedly. “Eddie and I are supposed to do a project together, but I’m getting the feeling that group work with him might not be super fun.”

Connor whistles lowly. “Good luck, dude.”

-

The walk from the high school to the middle school isn’t necessarily a long one, but it’s one that ties Eddie’s stomach up in nerves anyway. Of course, it’s hard to return when flooded with the traumatic memories that middle school seems to bring up for every functioning adult. But it’s more than that. Eddie has always gotten the impression that his step-brother doesn’t like him very much.

He’s not sure why, as far as he knows he’s never done anything to hurt the kid. In fact, when his mother first brought up the idea of having a step-brother Eddie was ecstatic. He had always secretly wanted a sibling. But no matter what he does or how hard he tries, he always gets the cold shoulder.

As the building starts to come into view, he can make out the shape of his step-brother sitting on the same bench as usual, feet swinging gently beneath him and hands gripped tightly around the straps of his backpack. Eddie wonders if that’s how he looks to everyone else, small and fragile and terrified of the world around him. The thought makes him wince.

“Hi, George,” he says, trying to keep his voice warm. He knows from experience that pity is the last thing he wants. “Ready to go?”

George hops wordlessly to his feet, not waiting for Eddie to take the lead as he follows the all too familiar path home. Eddie bites back a sigh. It’s always the same.

He hurries to catch up with the younger boy. “How was your day?”

“Fine.”

“Anything fun happen?”

George shrugs. “It was just school.”

“Right, yeah,” Eddie says, kicking a loose pebble across the sidewalk. He lets the silence hang over them, thick enough to cut with a knife and heavy enough to smother himself with. It’s uncomfortable. But maybe it’s the better option, because trying to make conversation with George is always borderline painful. Eddie doesn’t know what he’s doing wrong. “What do you think about going to the arcade this weekend? I can try to convince my mom to let us go.”

For a second George looks tempted. “Maybe. I might have homework.”

“Oh come on,” Eddie pushes, “I’m sure you could spare a few hours.”

“I dunno,” George says. “I think I have a test I have to study for.”

“Alright,” Eddie says, trying not to let George’s disinterest sting too much. It’s only the first week of school, of course he doesn’t have a test yet. “Just let me know, yeah?”

George nods, though he doesn’t look Eddie in the eye.

Eddie doesn’t bother trying to make conversation for the rest of the walk home.

When they arrive, Sonia Kaspbrak is bustling about the kitchen, a pile of steamed vegetables already placed meticulously in the center of the table. George pulls a face at the sight of them.

“Oh, good, you’re here,” she says, seemingly oblivious to the distaste George is displaying for her cooking. “Would you two mind setting the table? George, your father should be here any moment.”

George shrugs wordlessly, placing his backpack by the front door before pattering into the kitchen to grab the silverware. Eddie places a plate at each of their seats - the pink ones his mother insists are the _fancy set_ , even though they were only about $5 more expensive than their other set - before going to fill a glass of water for each of them. Just as he’s setting out the last glass, the door swings open again and in walks Robert Gray, Eddie’s step-father.

“Hey kiddo,” Robert says, ruffling George’s hair as he passes. George ducks away from his hand, scampering to Eddie’s side to escape. It’s moments like these that make Eddie think maybe George doesn’t completely hate him. Moments when he runs to him or looks to him for backup. But, then again, it could just be a coincidence. Either way, Robert doesn’t seem to notice or care.

“Perfect timing!” Sonia grins. “We’re just about to sit down for dinner.”

Robert hums. “It looks delicious.” As soon as he sits at his usual seat, the rest of them fall into place as well. As if they had been waiting for his permission. “How was school, boys?”

“It was good,” Eddie says. Then, because George is too focused on inspecting a droopy, admittedly rather sad, looking asparagus to answer, he continues, “We already have a project in english.”

“Already?” Sonia squawks. “It’s the first day. Eddie-bear, did you tell the teacher about your anxiety? He can’t be putting that much pressure on you already.”

“It’s fine, ma,” Eddie says with a little shrug. “It’s not that hard. Right now we’re just reading.”

“What are you reading?” Robert asks through a mouthful of salmon.

Eddie hesitates. “ _The Great Gatsby_.”

Sonia’s lips twist into a frown. “I see.”

“I can change books if you want,” Eddie offers anxiously.

“No, it’s fine, Eddie, dear.” Sonia stabs a piece of salmon rather violently with her fork. “I suppose you have to make your own decisions at some point. Have to face the world all on your own. Without your mother to guide you.” She sniffs distastefully.

Eddie slumps down in his seat. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Sonia, seemingly pleased with Eddie’s compliance, turns her gaze on George, “What about you, Georgie?”

“I told you I don’t like that name,” George frowns.

Sonia tuts quietly. “How did I get two such ungrateful sons?” George glares down at his plate. He doesn’t dare say it, but Eddie knows the cliche, _you’re not my real mom_ , mantra is running through his head. “You never talk to me, and when you do it’s just to insult me. Robert, I thought you taught him manners.”

“I did,” Robert says sharply. The edge in his tone makes George stiffen, his grip tightening around his fork. “You should listen to your mother, it’s not polite to ignore us.”

George splutters, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “I’m sorry-”

“Leave him alone,” Eddie says softly. “All kids are like that in middle school. I’m sure I was a menace too.”

“That’s for sure,” Sonia says, sighing dramatically as if the memory is simply too painful to recall. But she bravely soldiers on. “You wanted to join the track team. I don’t know how you kept getting these ideas in your head. You knew it would be too hard on your asthma and frail bones.”

“Yeah,” Eddie mumbles. “I know that now.” He stabs at a stray asparagus, just to have something to do, before glancing back up to eye his step-father. “How was work?”

Robert launches into a rant, mainly to boast about the promotion he thinks he’s going to get, but Eddie just uses it as an excuse to shut off his brain. He adds in a few helpful “mhms” and “uh-huhs” every now and then, just to uphold the image of the good, caring son who listens to everything his parents say. But in reality his brain is anything but here.

-

Eddie has just popped the last of his meds, and is focusing on placing them meticulously back into their respective places, when there’s a gentle knock on his door.

“Come in,” he calls out, expecting his mother.

He’s answered by a quiet squeaking sound of the door being opened. But, strangely, he’s not met with any of his mother’s usual smothering attitude. He expects some long winded monologue about how he’s growing up so damn fast or an interrogation surrounding if he did or did not take all of his meds. Instead, there’s silence. And when he turns to face the door, it’s George who’s there to greet him instead.

“Oh,” he says dumbly. “Hey. You - uh - You alright?”

George nods, looking a little place. He wraps his arms awkwardly around himself. “Yeah. I - um - I just wanted to say thank you. For changing the subject during dinner.”

“Oh, yeah,” Eddie says. “Sure. I mean, it’s no problem. You looked like you could use the help. And I - I know my mom’s a little intense sometimes.”

“I would say more than a little.”

Eddie snorts out a laugh. George doesn’t join in, but Eddie thinks he sees the ghost of a smile cross over his face. So he’ll count that as a win.

“Goodnight, Eddie,” George says. “Um - Goodluck on your project.”

He turns to bolt out of the room before Eddie has the chance to respond. But Eddie doesn’t really mind. Because he’s sure this is George’s version of an olive branch.


	2. Part Two

Growing up, Bill had been taught that therapy was a bad word. It was something that branded you, something that told others: _“Hey! Look at me! There’s something wrong with me!”_

Sure, his parents paid for his speech therapy (though Bill often worried it was a lost cause) but that was different from _therapy_ therapy. It’s not like they could hide his speech impediment, so paying for his speech therapy made them look better. As if they were telling the town: _“We know there’s something wrong with our kid, but don’t worry, we can fix it.”_ Like they were some sort of heroes.

_Therapy_ therapy is different.

It’s not like anyone could tell, from the outside looking in, that there is anything wrong with their little family. Zach still went to work from 9 in the morning to 5 at night. Sharon still spent her time bustling around the house like a good little housewife, cleaning the messes her husband left behind and preparing dinner. And Bill still spent every waking hour with his friends. The only difference was that he had traded out his bike for an old, beat up car.

They looked like a perfectly normal family. Minus one member, of course. But anyone who didn’t know them would have thought they were coping with the loss perfectly fine.

Maybe that’s what had caused Zach Denbrough to be so vocally against therapy. They appeared to be doing fine. Why fuck that up? Therapy would only alert the rest of the town to how much they have been struggling.

But then came Bill’s accident.

No one dared say anything to their faces, but the family knew whispers were spreading throughout town. Store clerk to customer. Housewife to husband. Friend to friend. They all knew that William Denbrough had ended up in one of those scratchy, uncomfortable hospital beds, getting his stomach pumped through a long tube down his throat. Whether or not it actually was an accident is still being debated.

Bill still thinks that his father would have rejected the idea of therapy, had it not been for the nice nurse with the pretty smile and curls tied up in a bow. Incidents that may or may not be accidents, it turns out, require therapy. Just in case they might not have been accidents.

The drive is the worst part. It’s at least an hour out of the way, in a futile attempt to quell the rumors flying around town, and Bill has to deal with his nerves the entire way. Even the music blasting over the radio doesn’t help.

The buzzing anxiety quiets a little once he enters the office. He had been expecting something similar to the hospital room he had been confined to all weekend, but instead he finds himself in what almost appears to be a miniature living room. A cushy couch and large armchair on either side of a squat coffee table, walls adorned with various artwork and photographs, shelves stuffed full of various knick knacks. There is something almost welcoming about it.

The door opens and closes behind him with a gentle _click_.

“You must be Mister Denbrough.” Bill swivels around to find a young woman blocking the door. A mess of curls surround her face, clipped back with two butterfly clips. An old notebook is held in one hand and an expensive looking pen in the other. “I’m your therapist, Phoebe. But you can call me Doctor Quinn.”

“It’s nn-nice to mm-muh-meet you,” Bill says politely.

Doctor Quinn grins back at him. “It’s nice to meet you too. Why don’t you have a seat?” Bill sits awkwardly on the edge of the couch, watching warily as Doctor Quinn lounges back in the armchair. “Tell me about yourself.”

“What?” Bill sputters. “Ll-Like what?”

Doctor Quinn shrugs. “Anything.” It’s still not a good enough answer for Bill, and when it becomes clear to Doctor Quinn just how much he’s struggling, she prompts, “How about you tell me about your family.”

“They’re ff-fuh-fine.”

“Just fine?”

“Mhm.”

“Are you close with your parents?”

Bill gestures lamely. “Is ah-any-anyone?”

Doctor Quinn chuckles quietly. “Is that a no? Why not?”

“I don’t know,” Bill says.

Doctor Quinn must hear the underlying truth in his voice, because she pivots to, “What about siblings?”

Bill’s shoulders stiffen. “Wh-What about th-them?”

“Do you have any?”

Does he? If he does, then he has to talk about Georgie. He has to admit how one mistake turned his whole life sour. If he doesn’t, then it’s like it never happened. Right? In a year he’ll be able to just start over anyway. He’ll tell people he’s an only child, and maybe someday he’ll believe it. So, “No.”

If Doctor Quinn notices his hesitation she doesn’t show it. “What about friends?”

“I have ff-fr-friends,” Bill says quickly, as if trying to defend himself.

Doctor Quinn quirks an eyebrow. “I’m sure you do.”

Bill flushes. “Sorry.” Doctor Quinn just smiles good naturedly and gestures for Bill to continue. “They’re nn-nice. I’m supposed to ss-see them ah-after this.”

“That’s exciting,” Doctor Quinn says.

“Yeah, I gg-guess.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

Fuck. “I - uh - ss-sort oh-of.”

“Yeah? What’s her name?”

Fuck. _Fuckfuckfuck_. “Um - Ss-St-Stacey.”

“That’s a nice name. How long have you two been together?”

“We - Uh - We aren’t. Nn-Not officially.”

“I see.” Doctor Quinn leans back in her armchair. “And why’s that?”

“I’m sorry, I dd-don’t see how this is imp-portant,” Bill blurts out. “I thought I ww-wuh-was here bb-bec-because - because,” he struggles for the words, unable to form them on his tongue. “You know! The - The ih-incident. Not tt-to recap my ss-social life!”

“The Incident?” Doctor Quinn says, seemingly unaffected by his outburst. “That’s a bit ominous, isn’t it?” Bill’s frown deepens. “We don’t have to talk about it. You’re here to talk about whatever you like.”

“But you kn-know what hh-happened?”

“I know the basics. I know why you were referred to me, but I don’t know any of the details.”

Bill feels himself relax a little. “Oh-Okay.”

Doctor Quinn peers at him curiously. “Is that something you want to talk about?”

“I dd-dunno,” Bill admits. “It’s just that...everyone’s been tt-truh-treating me dd-diff-differently since then.”

“Well can you blame them?” Doctor Quinn says with a little smile. “I can imagine they’re worried about you.”

“My pp-parents think it ww-wuh-was an accident.”

“Denial is very common in these situations.”

Bill thinks the denial started way before his little incident. “That’s what they’ve bb-been telling eh-everyone. That it was an ah-accident. Apparently they asked the ch-church to pp-pr-pray for me. I don’t even go to church!”

Doctor Quinn laughs a little at that. “Did you find it insulting?”

“No,” Bill admits. “My friend, Mike, gg-goes to church. He believes in all that stuff. The Bible and Jesus ah-and the second cc-coming and all that.”

“We’re not talking about Mike here,” Doctor Quinn reminds him gently. “Do you believe in all that stuff, as you called it?”

Bill shakes his head. “I don’t think it mm-makes sense. But I could never tt-tell my mom that, it would bb-br-break her hh-huh-heart.”

“But you weren’t insulted that they asked the church to pray for you?”

“No, I jj-just thought it ww-wuh-was dumb,” Bill says.

Doctor Quinn hums quietly. “Religion is a good coping mechanism for a lot of people. Maybe your parents are simply trying to find solace in an outside source.”

“Mm-Maybe,” Bill mumbles. “I think it’s more likely they’re using it to ignore they’re pp-pruh-problems. Like maybe if they just hh-hope God will take care of it, they ww-won’t have to deal with it themselves.”

They did the same thing when Georgie disappeared. He had hardly been missing 48 hours when Sharon and Zach Denbrough turned towards the Church, begging them to search for their lost son. But every night Bill would come home to find his mother half-asleep at the dining room table with a near empty wine bottle beside her, and his father watching whatever sports game was on, half a dozen beer cans by his feet.

Bill doesn’t doubt that they miss Georgie, and doesn’t doubt they were terrified out of their minds when he didn’t come home. But he can’t help but resent them for the way they hid in their house instead of joining the search parties they had insisted were so important.

“Sounds like they might need a bit of therapy themselves,” Doctor Quinn jokes.

Bill smiles weakly. “Yy-Yeah.”

If only she knew the extent of that statement.

-

Last spring, a new wave of chicks were hatched at the Hanlon farm. As soon as they could walk, Mike reached out to every one of the Losers, insisting they had to come down and see them. And so they came. Even Beverly had come down to visit, enticed by the promise of newly born chicks. She said later it was worth the drive, and judging by the blinding grin on Mike’s face, that was not a complement he took lightly.

They were, admittedly, very cute. Cute enough for the Losers to stay there until it had gotten dark and Will Hanlon had to corral them back inside.

But before the sun went down that day, Mike had told them they could each pick a chick to name.

What’s important to note here is that the Derry Video Rental store usually has a very limited supply of movies. It’s rare for them to have anything new, and even more rare for them to have anything that’s good. Even _Back to the Future_ was a few years old by this point, but it was _good_. And that’s all Bill really cared about.

So he didn’t need to think twice when he saw them on the shelf, and that night he stayed up until just over 2 AM trying to cram them all into one viewing.

Unfortunately for the newly born chicks, the excitement of that past weekend was still buzzing through Bill’s head when Mike told him he could name one of the newborns. And despite the way Mike patiently repeated that Bill’s chicken was a girl, Bill was insistent on naming her Marty McFly. Marty for short.

By now Marty is no longer a chick. She has grown into a rather large, fully grown sussex chicken. Her feathers have molted into a beautiful brown color, speckled with white, and her comb has grown into a beautiful vibrant red.

Bill is rather proud of her. Despite the fact that she isn’t really supposed to be his chicken, the entire group has stopped thinking of her as anything else. She lives on Mike’s farm, but Bill’s the one who dotes on her. About a month ago it had come to Mike’s attention that Bill was coming to visit the farm without his knowledge, wanting to see Marty McFly and make sure she was getting on alright.

And, as he pulls into Mike’s driveway, the sound of dirt and gravel crunching under his tires, that’s where he heads first. Only once he has Marty cradled securely in his arms does he start to trot back towards the house.

Jessica Hanlon is sitting on a comfy looking armchair when he comes in. She smiles at him over her book, seemingly unsurprised by the chicken placed contently in Bill’s arms. He supposes maybe it’s almost normal to find them together now.

“Hi, Bill,” she says politely. “How are you?”

“I’m ff-fuh-fine,” Bill says. “How are you? How’s yy-your bb-buh-buh-book?”

Jessica shrugs as she glances it over. “It’s alright. Not my favorite, I suppose.”

Bill makes a sad noise in the back of his throat. “I didn’t like the ll-luh-last book I rr-read either.”

“It’s always too bad,” Jessica says gently.

Bill doesn’t think _too bad_ is a strong enough phrase to describe the disappointment that builds in his chest every time he picks up a book. When he was a kid he could devour an entire book in a week. Now it’s exhausting just to think about reading a single chapter. He can’t help but think of it as a task that has to be completed, rather than a passion to fill the time.

It’s all rather depressing.

“Yeah,” Bill mumbles. “Too bad.” He strokes Marty’s feathers gently, and doesn’t tell Mrs. Hanlon that the last book he attempted to read was over three months ago. “Is Mm-Muh-Mike in his rr-room?”

“Oh, yes, sorry.” Jessica laughs. It’s warm and sunshiney and makes Bill wish, not for the first time, that his own mother could produce such a feeling so easily. “Go right up.”

“Thank you,” Bill smiles, already starting towards the stairs. “I hh-hope your book gets bb-buh-buh-better!”

He scampers up the stairs, the gentle creaking of the floorboards like music to his ears. Mike’s house has always seemed so open and welcoming. Even the parts that might frighten him, had it been a part of anyone else’s house, seem wonderful.

Old family photos adorn the walls. Every time Bill wants to reach Mike’s room, he’s greeted by a dozen smaller Mikes all grinning down at him. Nine year old Mike helping his mother make cookies. Thirteen year old Mike tending to the sheep. Sixteen year old Mike sitting in the driver’s seat of his father’s old truck. All leading up to eighteen year old Mike’s bedroom door.

Bill readjusts Marty, shuffling her to support her weight with one arm, while he reaches out with the other to open the door. Inside, he finds Mike lounging across his bed with his head pillowed on Ben’s thighs, while Stan sits at Mike’s old desk chair, his feet kicked casually up on the desk. In the center of the room is Mr Chips, curled up in a beam of sunlight.

“Bill!” Ben beams. “How was it?”

“Fine,” Bill says. He shuts the door behind him before sitting on the floor, much to the excitement of Mr Chips. Despite the arthritis in his old legs, he manages to haul himself up and drag himself to Bill’s side. Bill immediately rewards him by scratching behind his ears. “It was kind of ww-weird at first, but I think it’ll be gg-guh-good.” Stan shares a quick look with Mike, one that makes Bill’s stomach squirm. They still think something is going to go wrong.

“I’m sure,” Ben says. “You know my aunt had to go to therapy after she got divorced. She said it helped her a lot.”

“That’s good to kn-know.”

Stan clears his throat from across the room. The sudden noise is enough to startle Marty, who clucks disapprovingly in Bill’s arms. “Richie called me Saturday night.”

“Yeah?” Bill says, relief flooding his veins. He thinks if he had to talk about therapy one more second he might explode.

“He said he likes the new house,” Stan says. “I was thinking we should go up to visit soon.”

“Hey, that’s a great idea!” Mike grins. “I’d love to see Richie again.”

Bill nods. “I ww-would go. I’m sure we can ff-fuh-find a weekend we can gg-get away.”

“Yeah,” Ben says. “Let’s do it.” He’s still eyeing Bill, though not unkindly. It makes Bill squirm in discomfort, but he can’t find it inside himself to hold it against Ben. He knows he must have scared them. But Ben especially. That night after the hospital he had been a mess, and he’s sure it would have been worse if Ben wasn’t there. But he thinks he cried more in front of Ben that night than he has their entire friendship.

Ben had been as kind as one could be, cradling him in his arms until Bill was too exhausted even to cry. And now he expects Bill to break again at any moment.

In Ben’s defense, Bill does feel as if he could shatter at a moment’s notice. As if he’s one inconvenience away from completely breaking down. But he’ll be damned if that happens in front of his friends.

“Great!” Stan grins. “I’ll try to figure something out.”

-

Speak of the devil, it’s only an hour later when the phone rings. It comes as a surprise to no one to hear Richie’s voice on the other end, just as loud and cheerful as if he were standing next to them.

“I can’t believe you guys are hanging out without me,” he whines.

Mike laughs good naturedly. “What were you expecting? That we would just avoid each other until you came to visit?”

“Yes!” Richie exclaims. “That’s a great idea. Why aren’t you doing that?”

“Ah, well you shouldn’t be too jealous,” Mike says. “At least you don’t have to spend another year at Derry High. I heard a rumor that they were cutting the theatre’s budget in half to pay to refurbish the football field. I don’t know why. We never win anything.”

Richie’s groans. “We could barely make it by with the money we did have. The props we had were basically falling apart.”

“I heard a rumor that Derry High’s doing Grease this year!” Ben pipes up.

“Was that Haystack?” Richie asks. “What’s he saying?”

“That Derry High’s doing Grease as the school play,” Mike says.

“Really? _Fuck._ \- Ah, sorry mom! - Are you kidding me? I wanted to do Grease.”

“He says he wanted to be in Grease,” Mike relays.

“Maybe his new school ww-wuh-will be doing Grease tt-too,” Bill says.

“Bill says maybe your new school will do Grease too.”

“There is no Grease two,” Richie says cheekily.

“Fuck off, you know what I meant.” But even as he’s saying it, he can’t help but grin widely. And judging by the cackling laughter Richie lets out, he knows that Mike isn’t really angry.

“Hey, speaking of Bill, can you put him on?” Richie asks. “I have a question for him about a school project.”

Mike holds the phone out towards Bill. “Richie has a school question for you.”

Bill reaches over to take the phone from Mike, crossing his legs beneath him as he sits with his back against the wall. “Rich?”

“Big Bill!” Richie grins. “How are things? I heard you’re all fixed up now.”

“Mhm, hh-hope-hopefully,” Bill says with a dry laugh. “Mike said you had a qq-que-question for mm-me?”

“Yeah! Did you read _The Great Gatsby_?”

“A few yy-years ago, yeah,” Bill says.

“Did you like it? I’m thinking about doing a school project on it.”

Bill quirks his eyebrows. “You have pp-uh-pruh-projects already? Maybe this school does ss-suck more than Derry High.”

“All I have to do right now is read it,” Richie says. “So I guess it’s not the worst. Anyways, did you like it?”

“Yeah,” Bill says. “It ww-was good. I think you would ll-like it.”

“Okay, cool. My partner thought it was a romance novel.”

Bill snorts out a laugh. “I don’t th-think I would describe much that happens in that bb-book as rr-rom-romantic.”

“Yeah, he’s a weird dude,” Richie says. “He said that the books we were picking from had the devil’s work in them.”

Something about that only makes Bill laugh harder. Hard enough to disrupt Marty from where she had been sleeping. “The dd-devil’s ww-wuh-wor-work?”

“Yes!” Richie insists. “As if Satan himself has a side job as an author. Putting hidden messages in classic literature.”

Bill cackles. “Oh, I’m ss-sure. Does Jesus have an opposing publishing business?”

“Nah, he already has a best selling novel,” Richie says, causing Bill to dissolve into a new fit of giggles.

He’s sure Richie’s dying to ask about the hospital, but Bill can’t help but be grateful he’s holding back. Everyone’s been tiptoeing around Bill since he woke up. It’s sort of nice to just sit back and laugh.

“Well,” he says, once he’s managed to push past the laughter. “I hh-hope you’ve made more friends than jj-just this one weird Ss-Satan dude.”

“I have actually!” Richie grins, sounding genuinely proud of himself. “Can you imagine how awkward it would have been if I hadn’t made any friends?”

“Ss-So awkward,” Bill says solemnly.

“Yeah, for sure,” Richie says. “Hey, is Stan there?”

“Uh - Yeah.” Bill spares a glance around the room. Ben is laying across Mike’s bed, an old comic in his hands, but Mike and Stan are nowhere to be seen. “Or he ww-was. Him and Mike mm-muh-must have gone out to ch-check on the animals. I’ll put him on wh-when he gets back. You wanna tt-tuh-talk to Ben?”

“Fuck yeah!”

-

As it turns out, Mike and Stan are not checking on the animals. Instead they’re squished together in Mike’s bathroom, Mike leaning back against the sink counter as Stan paces. Back and forth. And back and forth. _And back and forth._ It’s starting to make Mike a little crazy.

“I still don’t get what you’re so worried about,” Mike says. “I mean, I _get_ it. But there’s nothing we can do.”

“There _is_ something we can do,” Stan insists. “There has to be.”

“Stan, we’ve done all we can,” Mike says gently. “He’s in therapy, he’s going to get better. It’s going to be fine.”

“You don’t know that!” Stan snaps. Mike raises his hands in mock surrender. “Sorry. Sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“It’s fine.”

“Can you ask Ben?” Stan asks, eyes wide and desperate.

“I don’t know if Ben is going to know any more than we do,” Mike says sympathetically.

“But wasn’t he there?” Stan insists. “When Bill left the hospital? Maybe - Maybe he told him something.”

Mike frowns. “You can’t magically fix these things, Stan.”

“But-”

“Stan.” Mike’s voice is firm, making Stan freeze in his path. “This,” he gestures wildly at Stan’s form, “isn’t going to help anyone. All Bill needs right now is for you to be there for him and listen to him. We don’t even have the full story right now. There’s no use angsting over solutions to problems we aren’t sure exist.”

“I just-” Stan buries his face in his hands. “I feel like everything is spiraling out of control. First Bev leaves, then Richie, and now - now _this_. It’s a mess.”

“Hey, it’s alright,” Mike says, face twisting in concern. He reaches out to grasp Stan by the shoulder, pulling him into a tight embrace. “Things aren’t so bad. Maybe we can invite Bev to come with us when we visit Richie.”

“That would be nice,” Stan whispers.

And it _does_ sound nice. It’s always nice when Beverly comes down, when the group is whole again. But it’s not just that. There are certain things that tear him up inside. Things that he can’t tell Mike. Not yet.

But for now it’s nice just to stay here. Just to be in Mike’s arms and remember that some things really are good.

-

Bill can’t remember the last time he had truly enjoyed school. When he was a kid, maybe. Or when english class made him feel like he had more than a singular brain cell.

But the world moves so fast now. He can’t help but feel like he’s watching from behind a latched window, watching as the world _spins and spins and spins_ without his consent. A part of him wishes it would all just stop.

His first day of senior year had been, as opposed to Richie’s first day, rather uneventful. At least half of the teachers told them they should be proud of themselves for making it this far. Bill doesn’t think there’s anything particularly amazing about it. It’s not like he did anything special.

It all just feels a little pandering.

But his friends seem excited. They’re already buzzing about their college applications and senior prom. The Losers had never been one for social gatherings before. They had skipped out on their junior prom in favor of eating fast food in their old clubhouse, playing games and listening to all of Beverly’s old tapes. But there must be something different about senior year. Something that suddenly makes every school event more appealing.

Bill doesn’t want to be the one to bring them down.

In terms of college, Bill still isn’t sure what to do or where to go. Most of his friends have a good idea of where they want to go, even Richie has his heart set on UCLA. But, to Bill, it just seems so overwhelming. He can’t think about it for longer than a few seconds without feeling as if he’s going to break out in hives.

Despite his active distaste for school, he still drags himself out of bed and into the car. The inbetween is a grueling process in which he sits on the floor staring at his closet for nearly five minutes before he can find the will inside him to move his body. But once he’s in the car, things are a little better. He’s a little more in control.

He stops by Stan’s house first. The other boy is sitting on his front porch, flipping through a beat up old book as he waits. He perks up as soon as Bill’s car pulls into the driveway, and Bill has barely put it in park before Stan is sliding into the passenger seat and buckling his seatbelt.

“Morning,” he grins.

“Morning,” Bill murmurs, feeling as if the wind has been knocked out of him. “Wh-What are you reading?”

“ _The Two Towers_ ,” Stan says as he tries to stuff the book into his overfull backpack.

Bill hums softly. “ _Lord of the Ring_ s. I liked that wuh-wuh-one.”

“Yeah, me too,” Stan says thoughtfully. He finally succeeds in zipping up his backpack, and leans back in his seat with a loud _huff_. “Thanks for driving me.”

“Yeah, ss-sure,” Bill shrugs. “It’s no puh-pruh-pruh-problem.” He pauses for a moment, keeping his eyes glued to the road. “I like driving you.”

“Yeah?” Stan’s smile grows. “I like driving with you too.” Out of the corner of his eye, Bill can see Stan shifting a little in his seat. “It’s nice to have some time alone. Away from the others.” Quickly, he adds, “I mean, I love them. I love spending time with them. But - You know-”

“I know,” Bill says hurriedly.

Stan’s hands fold together in his lap, fingers interlocking with each other like he’s desperate for something to hold onto. Bill can see the school coming up in the distance.

“I meant to ask yesterday,” Stan says, voice strained, “about your therapy.”

Bill can feel his shoulders tense, and his grip tightens around the steering wheel. “You dd-don’t have to.”

“But I-”

“Stan, I don’t rr-ruh-really want to tt-talk about ih-it.”

Stan slumps down in his seat. “Right.”

“I’m sorry,” Bill murmurs.

Stan stares down at his hands, weaving and unweaving his fingers anxiously. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Bill falls silent. He waits until he’s taken the keys out of the ignition, the car now safely parked in its regular parking spot at the far end of the parking lot, to turn to Stan. “I’m oh-okay.”

“Yeah?” Stan peeks at him from under his eyelashes. “You’re sure? Because - Because if you ever need someone to talk to or whatever-”

“Stan, I’m ff-fuh-fine.” Bill reaches out to clasp Stan’s hands between his own, feeling the muscles relax under his touch. “I puh-pruh-promise. It was just - just an ah-accident.”

Stan stares silently down at their hands. Bill gets the feeling he doesn’t really believe him, but he still lets out a quiet, “okay,” before slipping his hands out from under Bill’s and opening the passenger side door. He clears his throat loudly, still refusing to meet Bill’s eye. “I’ll see you in english.”

Stan doesn’t slam the door - he’s never been one to make a scene when he’s upset - but the sound of the door closing still rattles Bill from the inside out. He hates making Stan upset. Hates it more than having to drag himself out of bed every morning just to return to this hellhole. But he can’t tell Stan just how torn apart he really is. The whole reason he’s going to therapy is so that people like Stan don’t have to worry. Though he’s starting to think it’s having the opposite effect.

With a sigh, he reaches behind him to grab his backpack, and makes his way out of the car.

-

When Bill meets Stan in front of their english class later that day, it seems as if Stan’s mood has improved a little. He’s willing to at least meet Bill’s eyes, which Bill takes as a win.

For a moment they just stare at each other, daring each other to make the first move. Unknown to Bill, Stan had been gearing up to apologize all day. But now that they’re face to face the words simply won’t come. He pictures the words in his head, but can’t seem to transfer them to the outside world. He opens his mouth, only to snap it shut a moment later.

Bill must sense his struggle, because a moment later he says, “We sh-should get inside. Before we’re ll-late.”

“Right, yeah,” Stan says.

He falls in step behind Bill, watching him closely as he enters the classroom. The ground had shifted between them long ago, though Stan can’t pinpoint an exact moment. But now it’s starting to feel like it’s crumbling.

Stan has never been good at helping people. Not when it comes to emotions. There’s something sticky about them, something that seems to shut down every empathetic emotion Stan has.

He _wants_ to help. Meeting the Losers in the hospital had been crushing. And the wait had been even worse. Sitting in the waiting room, watching the nurses dart back and forth as the chemicals invaded their nostrils. And yet it felt like hours before any of the nurses actually came up to them. After that, Stan was determined to try harder. To actually help instead of just _wanting_ to help.

But, again, it’s sticky. And Stan can’t help but feel as if he’s making it worse.

“Bill,” the heavy voice of their english teacher cuts through the air, slicing between Stan’s thoughts like a freshly sharpened knife, “Can you come here for a moment?”

Stan hesitates a second longer, eyes lingering on his friend, before slipping off into the crowd. It leaves Bill feeling strangely exposed, like a knight without his armor. A part of him wants to grab Stan before he can leave, to beg him to stay and face whatever is going to happen by his side. But that would be ridiculous. So Bill lets Stan slip through his fingers, and walks up to the teacher’s desk by himself.

“Yes?”

“Bill, you realize this is your graduation year, do you not?” Mister Dufresne says, shuffling the papers on his desk.

Bill tightens his grip on the straps of his backpack. “Yes,” he says again.

“Good.” Mister Dufresne plops the stack of papers down with a quiet _thunk_. “Then you know we can’t have a repeat of last year.”

Bill bites back a groan. “We ww-wuh-won’t.”

Mister Dufresne must sense the distaste Bill has for this conversation, because he continues on, “I know you’re a smart kid. The analysis you did for your final project on _Mice and Men_ last year blew me away. You just need to put your mind to it. Just a little bit of effort can go a long way.”

“Alright,” Bill says, nodding almost robotically.

Mister Dufresne frowns. “I mean it, I don’t want to see you barely pass again.”

“I don’t wuh-wuh-want th-that either,” Bill admits.

“Good!” Mister Dufresne finally breaks out into a smile. And for a moment Bill thinks the clouds have parted, ever so slightly, and he can see a bit of sun peeking through. It feels nice to have someone rooting for him. Even if it makes him feel like he’s back in middle school, a smug grin creeping across his face every time he gets the answer right. _Teacher’s pet_ rings through his head, sounding vaguely similar to the sneering voice of Henry Bowers. “You come to me if you have any trouble, alright?”

“Alright.”

Mister Dufresne peers over Bill’s shoulder. Most of the class is already seated, chattering carelessly amongst itself. “Alright, well thank you for hearing me out. Why don’t you have a seat.” Bill scampers off to his desk, secretly relieved for the conversation to be over despite the sliver of sunshine peeking through the clouds, as Mister Dufresne stands up. “Evening, class.”

Stan leans over to Bill’s desk, knocking his ankle with the toe of his Keds, as Mister Dufresne begins his lecture. “What happened?”

“We were jj-juh-just talking about my gg-gr-grades,” Bill shrugs.

“Your grades?”

“Yeah, ff-fr-from last yy-yuh-year,” Bill says. “And how they ss-sucked.”

“Oh.” Stan flushes, suddenly looking very embarrassed he asked at all. “Well - I mean - I’m sure this year will be better.”

“Yeah,” Bill murmurs.

He can feel Stan watching him as he takes his notes, eyes burning into the side of his head. It makes Bill just a little bit antsy. Like an animal in a zoo, seeing everyone stare at him through a thick wall of glass when all he can do is sit very, very still and hope they go away. But before he can say anything, Stan bumps their feet together again.

Bill peeks at him through his eyelashes. “Hmm?”

He half expects Stan to ask about his therapy again, or to continue to push the idea that his grades will be better this year. Bill doesn’t know if he can handle two of those conversations. But instead, “Do you want to come over today?” He sounds breathless as he asks, and the thought of it makes Bill’s heart melt a little.

“Yeah,” he says with a little smile.

“Cool,” Stan says, a grin flickering on his lips. “I’ll - um - I’ll meet you by your car after school.”

-

And sure enough, when Bill exits the school building two hours later, there’s Stan, leaning back against the hood of his car with his head tipped back. Bill can see a pair of round birds fluttering about on the branches above him. Stan watches them thoughtfully. Bill can’t help but think he looks beautiful like that, completely relaxed and content.

“Hh-Hey,” he says, soft enough so as to not frighten the birds away. “Ready to go?”

“Mhm.” Stan takes one last look at the birds, still chirping quietly on the branches, before pushing himself upright and heading towards the passenger seat. “My parents are out for a date night. They aren’t gonna be back until late.”

“Ooh, so we hh-huh-have the house all to ourselves,” Bill says teasingly, grinning over at Stan as he starts the car. “We can th-thr-throw a rager.”

Stan rolls his eyes. “Oh, yeah. It’ll be absolutely thrilling with only the four of us.”

“What? You dd-don’t think I have ah-any other ff-fr-friends?”

“Absolutely not. This is it.”

“Just you ww-watch, the entire sch-school is gonna come to our pp-par-party.”

“Oh yeah?”

“ _Oh yeah_. I’m Mm-Muh-Mister Puh-Puh-Pop-Popular over here.”

Stan finally breaks out into fits of giggles, his hands flying up to cover his face. The sight makes Bill grin, and soon he joins in, the sound of laughter spreading through the car until _The Psychedelic Furs_ can barely be heard through the crackling radio.

“Fuck off,” Stan says, the hiccuping remnants of his laughing fit still lingering in the air. “I didn’t actually invite anyone else over today. Just for the record.”

“It would be pp-pr-pretty awkward if you dd-did.”

Stan doesn’t respond, but out of the corners of his eyes Bill can see the lightest shade of pink coloring his cheeks.

They pull up to Stan’s house not long later, and immediately Stan is tugging him into his bedroom. His fingers grip the sleeve of Bill’s jacket like he _needs_ him. Bill doesn’t think he minds. Not right now.

He backs Stan onto the bed, straddling his hips and bracketing him in with his forearms. Stan’s hands slip from Bill’s arm to loop around his neck.

Bill had always heard that kissing people causes fireworks or sparks. But Bill’s never felt that. He’s never felt a bang, never felt a single moment he _knew_ he loved someone.

But he feels heat when he kisses Stan.

It’s not as definitive as a sparks would be, or as explosive as fireworks. But it’s loud and powerful and _raw_. Like a wildfire, ripping through trees and refusing to heed to anything in its path.

Sometimes Bill wonders if it’s love, other times he wonders if he just likes how Stan feels beneath him.

He supposes it doesn’t matter in the moment.

He nips at Stan’s lower lip and the fire roars louder as Stan arches his back, whimpers tumbling past his lips.

Then, before Bill can register what’s happening, Stan pulls away and blurts out, “I’m sorry I was so bitchy this morning.”

“I - Wh-What?”

“When I asked about your therapy.”

Bill shrugs. “It’s ff-fine, it doesn’t mm-muh-matter.”

“Yeah?” Stan looks up at him with wide doe eyes. “You’re not mad?”

“No.” Bill gives his head a little shake. “I’m nn-not mad.”

“Okay,” Stan murmurs, fiddling nervously with the hairs at the nape of Bill’s neck.

“Unless you ww-want me to be mm-muh-mad.” Bill grins cheekily, leaning closer to Stan.

Stan hums, batting his eyelashes a little. “If you were mad, what would you do to me?”

“I gg-guess I would just have to puh-puh-put you in your place.”

Stan’s lips twist into a grin to match Bill’s. “Why don’t you prove it?”

Bill surges down to kiss Stan again, and the fire takes over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is uppp sorry this took me like literally a month to update. I was going through some shit. But now things are hopefully better so !!!!!
> 
> Now there's only one more Loser who has yet to enter the story. Be on the lookout for Beverly in chapter four, and in chapter three be prepared for another look at Eddie&Richie, as well as more on Georgie.
> 
> Also I didn't think about the fact that Dr Quinn is also Harley Quinn's name until I had written half the chapter lmao. I named the therapist after my dog & my cat. But my cat is technically named after Harley Quinn so maybe the therapist is also named after Harley Quinn. Who is to say. I have also been informed there is a Grease two but ehh who cares. It was terrible so we're gonna pretend it doesn't exist.
> 
> I hope you guys liked this chapter! Please leave a comment, I love hearing your thoughts!


	3. Part Three

The next morning, Bill wakes up in Stan’s bed.

The blinds had been left open a crack in the night, and now Bill can feel a strip of sunshine warming his exposed shoulder. The same light makes Stan’s hair glow golden. It’s moments like this, in the aftermath of the fire, that Bill thinks everything might be alright. His own bed feels like a black hole, sucking him in and keeping him bundled in the blankets. Stan’s bed feels so far away from all of that. As if it exists in its own little universe, their own personal bubble that’s constantly bathed in that warm, golden afterglow.

Stan stirs quietly. Bill can see the muscles flexing in his back. It makes Bill’s mouth go dry, and his chest go very, very tight.

“Morning,” Stan mumbles, voice thick with sleep. Bill hums a response. “You want breakfast?”

“Ooh, yy-yuh-you’re gonna ff-feed me?” Bill grins teasingly. “How romantic.”

“Fuck you,” Stan groans. He shoves at Bill’s chest, and the surprise nearly makes Bill topple off the edge of Stan’s twin sized bed. “Make your own toast.”

“Nn-Nuh-No!” Bill gives Stan his best puppy dog eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Stan cracks one eye open. “Alright. I accept your apology. Put some clothes on and I’ll make you eggs or something.”

“You mm-muh-muh-mean you don’t ww-wuh-want your parents to see my bb-bare ass?”

Stan wacks him on the chest again. This time Bill does go down. But, even still, he can’t help the flurry of giggles that slip from his lips.

“God, you’re worse than Richie,” Stan says half heartedly.

“That’s nn-nuh-not puh-puh-possible.”

Stan cracks a smile.

Five minutes later Bill’s dressed in yesterday’s clothes and sitting at the dinner table, making small talk with the Urises as if he didn’t have his dick inside their son the night before.

It’s not unusual for the Losers to spend the night at each other’s places, But Bill especially has a track record for showing up unannounced at his friends’ front doors or at their bedroom windows. So it’s not unusual by any means for the Urises to find Bill in their kitchen the next morning. Despite this, the mornings always seem to make Stan nervous and fidgety.

“How are you liking senior year?” Donald asks, half distracted by the very serious task of spreading butter across every corner of his toast. “Stanley said you had some classes together.”

“Just the one,” Stan mumbles.

“It’s ah-alright,” Bill shrugs. “Not any dd-diff-differetnt than ll-luh-luh-last year.”

“I loved my senior year,” Andrea smiles. “My friends and I could leave school early, so we would always spend the afternoons at the mall. Do you want any more fruit?”

Bill shakes his head. “I’m oh-okay, thank you.”

“Alright. Stanley?”

Stan shakes his head.

“Right, well,” Andrea continues, “I remember enjoying senior year.”

“I ss-sure I’ll like it once I gg-guh-get settled,” Bill says, though he isn’t really sure.

“We should get going,” Stan says suddenly. He scrambles to his feet, looking at Bill expectantly. “I don’t want to be late.”

“Rr-Ruh-Right,” Bill says, following Stan’s lead. “If I’m late again Mm-Miss Greene will mount me on hh-her wall.”

Andrea chuckles good naturedly. “I didn’t mean to keep you. Have a good day you two!”

“Bye mom!” Stan calls out, already halfway out the door. He shuts it firmly behind him. “You don’t need to do that every time, you know.”

“Wh-What?”

“You know what,” Stan snaps. He doesn’t continue until they’re safely in Bill’s car, windows closed and halfway down the road. “If they knew what we were doing they wouldn’t be so friendly. You know that, don’t you?”

“I’m nn-not going to tt-tuh-tell them,” Bill says. “If that’s wh-wh-what you’re worried about.”

“I’m not worried  _ you’re _ going to tell them,” Stan frowns.

But there’s clearly still something bothering him, so Bill pushes, “I’m ss-sure they wouldn’t be as bb-buh-buh-bad as you think. If they dd-did somehow fff-fuh-fuh-find out, I mean.”

Stan shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. In a couple months I won’t have to worry about it. I can be off in New York, fucking whoever I want without worrying whether or not my parents can smell him on me the next morning.”

Something about that stings. Something about Stan’s vindictive tone or the way he talks about Bill like some shameful affair. As if they haven’t been best friends since grade school. Or maybe it’s the reminder that once Stan goes away he’ll be sleeping with someone else. And Bill won’t have any say in the situation.

Bill clears his throat, hoping to ward off the noise buzzing about his brain. “At least you hh-have that to look ff-fuh-forward to.”

“Do you ever think about that stuff with your parents?” Stan asks, instead of expanding on his previous comment. “Like...coming out to them?”

“I mean, yy-yuh-yeah,” Bill says. “I guess so.”

“You guess so? How can you guess so? You either have or you haven’t.”

“I have,” Bill says firmly. “But I dd-don’t - I don’t think I thuh-thuh-think about it as mm-much as you do. I’m not that close ww-wuh-with my parents.”

Barely audible, Stan asks, “Do you think they would kick you out?”

_ Oh. _

There are a million things Bill wants to tell Stan. A million things that he can only hope and pray would make him feel better. But Bill’s not nearly as articulate in person as he is on paper. Even then, he fears his words can get too jumbled and carried away to truly be considered  _ articulate _ or  _ smart _ . Instead, he reaches across the console to gently squeeze at Stan’s knee. “You’re pp-parents aren't gonna kick you out, Stan. You kn-know they love you.”

“I know,” Stan whispers, eyes glued to Bill’s fingers still wrapped gently around his knee. “I guess I just worry - I dunno. I guess you’re right.”

“And even if they dd-did,” Bill continues, picking his words carefully through his teeth, “you could always cr-cr-crash with me. Or any oh-of the Losers, ff-for that matter. You know any of us ww-wuh-would take you in in a hh-heartbeat.”

Stan gently plucks Bill’s hand off his knee, lacing their fingers together. He squeezes gently. “I hope it doesn’t come to that. But thank you.”

Bill suddenly feels very cold. Hand holding wasn’t part of the deal. The flirting is nice and the morning car rides are nice and the sex is  _ extra _ nice. But they hadn’t ever discussed hand holding. Things weren’t supposed to go that far.

“Yy-Yeah.” He quickly pulls his hand away, wrapping it around the steering wheel in a death grip instead. He can see Stan’s face drop out of the corner of his eye. “We’re always hh-here for you, Stan.” This time, when the car is parked, he doesn’t bother with small talk. “I really meant it wh-when I said Miss Greene would kill mm-me if I was late.”

“Right.” Stan’s voice is flat. His face devoid of emotion. “I’ll see you in english then?”

Bill barely has a chance to nod before Stan’s out of the car and halfway across the parking lot.

-

“I can’t believe you have to spend your lunch period in here,” Connor whines. “Who am I supposed to eat lunch with now?”

“Whoever you ate lunch with before,” Richie replies dryly.

Connor shrugs. “I don’t like my old friends. Are you sure I can’t just hang out in here with you guys?”

“I don’t mind,” Richie says. “But you’ll have to check with Eddie.”

Connor flops down dramatically beside Richie. “That’ll never work. Eddie hates me.”

“Sucks to suck.”

“Fuck you, dude.”

Someone clears their throat behind them, and when Richie turns to look, there’s Eddie. His hands are gripping the straps of his backpack like he’s terrified it might vanish, and he’s stiff as a board, but at least he’s here. There’s someone else beside him too. A chubby girl with a face full of makeup and dark hair pulled into a pair of matching pigtails.

“Hi, Eddie,” Connor says. Eddie stares at him. “Do you remember my name now?” Eddie continues to stare.

“Don’t tease him, Connor,” says the girl.

Connor gestures wildly. “I’m not teasing! He doesn’t remember my name!”

“I remember your name,” Eddie says blandly.

“What is it?”

“It’s Connor.”

“Okay, that doesn’t count because she just said it.”

Eddie shrugs. He moves to sit across from Richie, hugging his backpack close to his chest as he stares him down. “I think we should change books.”

“ _ What? _ ” Richie blurts out. “No! No way, dude. I already bought my copy of  _ The Great Gatsby _ . We’re not changing it now.”

The girl hesitantly sits next to Eddie. “I’m sure you could trade it out.”

Richie throws his hands up in exasperation. “You’re not even part of this project! Do you have a fear of classic literature too? Because, if so, I have to tell you, it’s  _ weird _ .”

Connor nods gravely. “It is weird.”

The girl shoots Connor a glare. “That’s rich coming from you. I doubt you’ve ever read classic literature in your life. You probably can’t even read a kid’s book.”

“Yeah, well, at least I don’t think the devil is lingering between the pages of some book written a hundred years ago!” Connor snarls.

“ _ The Great Gatsby _ did not come out a hundred years ago.” Richie runs a hand through his hair, feeling himself lose more and more faith in this project with every second that passes. “Look, can we just focus? We only have, like, half an hour for lunch. And we’ve already wasted a lot of it.”

Eddie slumps down in his seat. “Fine. But that’s all this can be, alright? We can talk about the project but no - no friend talk. We have to keep this professional.”

“Professional?” Richie wrinkles his nose. “What are we? Forty year old men who share a cubicle wall at their nine to five?” Eddie glares at him. “Alright, fine. We’ll be  _ professional _ .”

There’s a strained choking noise from beside him, and with a numbed sort of horror, Richie realizes Connor’s trying to hide a laughing fit. Richie stomps harshly on his foot, but it only makes Connor, who is trying to hide his face in his arms, laugh harder.

Red rises in Eddie’s cheeks, though he keeps an otherwise straight face. He stares at Richie straight on, face red and humiliated. Richie can’t help but feel bad for the guy. He doesn’t even know what he did to send Connor into such a fit. But he can’t seem to stop him.

“Maybe your friend should go,” the girl frowns. “He’s being rude.”

“He’s not - It’s not about - He’s not laughing at you.”

“I’m sorry,” Connor snorts out. “I’m sorry, alright?” He peeks out over his arms, face flushed and eyes sparkling. “Professional? What the fuck, dude?” Eddie’s cheeks only get darker. “That’s the weirdest fucking thing I have ever heard. And you-” He gestures vaguely at the girl, “-you have the guts to call me rude? C’mon, he blatantly told Richie he didn’t want to be friends. I think that qualifies as being pretty fucking rude.”

The girl opens her mouth, but quickly snaps it shut again. This repeats a few times, before she finally settles on, “You don’t know if he meant it that way.”

“God, what are you?” Connor snorts. “His fucking knight in shining armor?” He dissolves into a new fit of giggles. At this point Richie is shocked the librarian hasn’t come around to chew them out yet.

The girl is on her feet fast as lightning, the chair wobbling precariously behind her. “C’mon, Eddie, we should go.”

“Wait! C’mon, man, we have to work on the project,” Richie pleads. But it’s no use. Eddie’s already getting to his feet and slinging his backpack back over his shoulders.

“I’ll read the first chapter tonight,” Eddie says, face deadpanned.

Richie watches, defeated, as Eddie follows his friend past their table and out of sight. The door slams shut a moment later, and without missing a beat, Connor sobers up.

“God, what the fuck?” he says, as if he hadn’t been laughing his ass off a second ago.

Richie gapes at him. “You were faking?”

“Yeah, sure,” Connor shrugs. “I learned a long time ago that if someone’s rude to you, you either have to knock their teeth out or laugh at them. And I don’t hate Eddie enough to punch him.”

“I had to work on my project,” Richie frowns.

“Come on, you have all semester,” Connor insists. “Besides, he was being a fucking dick to you. He deserved it.”  
“I guess.” Richie chews thoughtfully on his lower lip. “It seemed a little far though.”

Connor scoffs. “My cousin’s broken noses for less than that.”

“Oh, gee, your cousin sounds like a real nice guy.”

“Hey man, I never said that. He ain’t no nice guy, but people don’t mess with him. That’s for sure.”

“Well I hope I never get on his bad side,” Richie mumbles.

Connor shifts uncomfortably. “He doesn’t go here. He lives out of town.”

The silence that settles around them is thick and heavy. Richie wants nothing more than to grab it by the throat and chuck it out the window. “Thank you,” he finally says. “For sticking up for me.”

“Yeah, well, you’re kinda a nerd,” Connor says. “So someone has to do it.”

“God, shut  _ up _ ,” Richie huffs. He kicks at Connor’s legs under the table, making the blonde cackle and pull his feet up onto the chair to hide from Richie’s attacks. “I’m not a nerd. And you don’t - you don’t need to do something like that again. It’s not a big deal, really. I don’t care what that guy thinks of me. I just wanna get this project done, and then I never have to think about him again.”

Connor’s stare lingers on him. It makes Richie feel strangely exposed, as if his new friend can somehow crack open his brain and see all his innermost thoughts. “I can read, you know,” he says suddenly. “Just because I don’t read all the classic shit or whatever. It doesn’t mean I’m an idiot.”

Richie peers at him curiously. “I never said I thought you were an idiot.”

“Yeah, right, but I - Myra said - Whatever, it doesn’t matter.” Richie’s about to argue when Connor suddenly stands. “Do you wanna get out of here? We don’t need to hang out in the library anymore.”

“I - Uh - Yeah, sure.”

Richie grabs his bag, haphazardly gathering his things before following Connor out of the library, feeling as if things have suddenly gone very sideways.

-

When english class rolls around, Richie makes a point of sitting directly next to Eddie. If the other boy notices his presence, he doesn’t show it. He has  _ The Great Gatsby _ open in front of him. But by the time Mister Epping starts the class, he hasn’t flipped the page once.

He doesn’t say a word to Richie throughout the class. Doesn’t even look at him.

Richie supposes he really must have meant it when he said he wanted to keep things  _ professional _ . Whatever the fuck that means.

“Hey,” Richie says, leaning across his desk as the rest of the class packs up around him. “So I was thinking, since we didn’t get to work much during lunch, maybe we could get some stuff done now?”

“I told you,” Eddie says, still not looking at him as he shoves his notebook back into his bag. “I have to pick up my step-brother.”

“Right, yeah. We could work at your house, if you wanted,” Richie offers. “Or mine. Your step-brother’s totally welcomed.”

Eddie’s head suddenly snaps up, his eyes boring directly into Richie’s. “ _ No! _ I mean - I mean I can’t. My - My parents - they want me home - both of us - they want us home right after school.”

“Can’t you call them-”

“No. I - Look, I’m sorry. I can’t.”

Eddie practically runs out of the classroom, leaving Richie to scramble to pack up his things in time to catch up with him.

“Is this about what Connor did at lunch?” he asks. “Because he’s sorry about that-”

“No he’s not.”

“Well, I’m sorry about it. And I’ll talk to him, if you want-”

“You don’t have to do that.” He stops next to his locker. But instead of entering his combination, he turns to fix Richie with a piercing stare and deep frown to match. “Is Connor going to be there every time?”

Richie shrugs. “I dunno. He said he didn’t like to sit with his old friends, I figured there wasn’t any harm in it. He’s really not a bad guy.” Eddie’s eyebrows pinch together. “C’mon, you can’t possibly hold that against me. You brought your friend. The - uh - the girl. What’s her name?”

“Myra.”

“Yeah, Myra. And it’s not like she was any nicer than Connor.”

Eddie huffs heavily. “Connor started it.”

Richie resists the urge to roll his eyes. It wouldn’t make things any better. “Yeah, whatever. Let’s just decide to not invite anyone else next time. Sound good?”

Eddie nods slowly. “Yeah, sure.”

“Cool. Also, I drove my mom’s car to school today so if you need a ride-”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“No, really, it’s not a hassle.”

“I don’t want to,” Eddie says flatly.

“What? Are you Sure? Because I-”

“Look, I already told you I don't want to be your friend,” Eddie spits, venom dripping from his words. Richie’s sure he looks like he’s been slapped, but for the moment he’s too shocked to care. “Just leave me alone, alright?”

“Fuck you, dude,” Richie says. “No wonder Connor hates you.”

Now it’s Eddie's turn to look as if he’s been hit. His face crumples in on itself, and for a moment Richie thinks he’s going to collapse all together. But then the moment passes and Eddie’s back to his normal stony-faced self.

He leaves without another word, and this time Richie doesn’t bother to chase after him.

-

At the same time Richie and Eddie are having their little spat, George Gray - formerly Denbrough - is hiding behind the back of the middle school. Over the years, this has become one of his favorite spots. So much so that he’s a little sad at the thought of leaving it next year. But he supposes there will be another hiding spot at the high school, possibly even more.

But that’s still a year away. For now, he has the sliver of ground hidden between the back of the school building and the chain linked fence.

Over the fence is a creek. It’s not lush and green like the ones his brother used to take him to when he was little. This one is littered with trash and poison ivy, and by now the water has turned a murky brown color. But it still brings the memories back, and sometimes small frogs and bugs can be found near the edge, so George supposes it isn’t really that bad.

Beside George, and with his fingers threaded through said fence, is Avery Hockstetter. He’s a sort of gangly boy, with skin so pale the bags under his eyes stand out like fresh bruises, and a mess of dark hair that’s never seen a comb in its life. He’s the sort of boy who George thinks will be attractive in a few years, but at the moment is an awkward, gawky mess of limbs he hasn’t quite grown into yet. Though, if he were to be honest with himself, George has already found himself laying awake at night, wondering how someone so awkward could be so pretty.

Not that he would ever dare say such a thing out loud. His step-mother would drag him to church by the ear. And who knows how Avery would react.

“We should go down there this weekend,” Avery says suddenly. He doesn't look at George as he says it, his eyes instead glued to the creek that slopes beneath them.

“Yeah, sure,” George says dryly. “I love swimming with garbage.”

Avery nudges him. “Shut up. That’s not what I meant. Besides, we don’t have to go down there if you don’t want to. We could go back to the park or something.”

George likes the park. It’s more green than the creek, with soft grass and trees that turn vibrant reds in the fall. It’s closer to the places he remembers playing in as a kid, chasing after his brother’s friends and surrounded by plants of every shade of green, all of which seemed to loom ten feet taller than him.

“I’ll have to see if I can get past my dad,” he says.

“I’ll meet you outside your window again.”

George nods. “Yeah, alright.”

The one time Robert had caught him sneaking out, George was half terrified he was going to kill him. Sonia had cried for hours, and had begged Eddie to pray that George wouldn’t grow up to be some sort of hoodlum. Both of which were a little odd, and perhaps it was a bit frightening to see someone cry _that_ _much_ , but George wasn’t afraid.

Who George  _ was _ afraid of was Robert Gray.

He had played the concerned father, lecturing George until his ear just about fell off. Telling him he was just  _ concerned _ . That he wanted to help him. He played the part pretty damn well, George had to admit.

But after things had calmed down, when Sonia’s sobs had reduced to nothing but whimpers, Robert took George out on a drive.

They drove for hours and hours, watching the traffic lights pass them by. The lights seemed dimmer that night. As if they were turning their heads in shame, hiding Robert’s crimes in their shadows and weeping tears of neon red.

They finally pulled over on a road George didn’t recognize. George had been forced -  _ asked _ , according to Robert - to lay on the ground, listening to the cars whiz past him less than a foot away. He had laid there for what felt like hours, chest wracked with sobs and hands over his ears. Robert wasn’t the least bit sympathetic, face stony and voice even.

George returned home that night unscathed but shaken out of his mind.

He never told Avery about that. He never told anyone about that.

Avery’s grin widens. “Cool.”

Because, despite the fear, how could George say no when Avery smiles at him like that. Like he’s the only one he wants to trek through trash water with.

Besides, it’s not like the risk is any less for Avery. Last time he had stolen some of his brother’s cigarettes for one of his and George’s midnight excursions, he had shown up at school the next week with burns from those same cigarettes up his arms.

On the other side of the fence, a frog croaks out a song. Avery squats down in an attempt to better see it, his hand reaching out through a hole in the fence. George watches with silent curiosity as Avery scoops the frog up in his hand. He’s always had a gentle way about him, and has always seemed to have a way with animals. They seemed to trust him inherently. Even now, the frog only stops its song for a moment before settling into Avery’s palm and continuing on.

_ “You’re like a Disney princess,” _ George had told him on more than one occasion, to which Avery had just laughed and elbowed his ribs.

Today, George tells him, “I’m sorry your brother’s a dick.” Avery’s arms are free of any new blemishes for the moment, but the scars of old battles are still evident. George can still see the small circle just beneath the inside of his elbow.

Avery quickly drops the frog on a soft patch of grass before drawing his arm back to his chest. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

George immediately feels bad about bringing it up. But another apology would only make it worse, so he moves to sit silently beside Avery instead and watches the frog through the fence.

Finally, Avery says, “Maybe this is just a sign that you need to stop taking your own brother for granted.” It’s meant to be a joke, but his voice is still strained and it comes out small and pathetic.

“Eddie is not my brother,” George says, perhaps with more venom than he meant.

“Step-brother, whatever,” Avery says with a shrug. “Same thing. My point still stands.”

“It is not,” George grumbles. Before Avery can argue, he clears his throat and says, “Here, give me your arm.” Avery curiously lets George take hold of his arm, watching as the blonde digs a pen out of his backpack and draws a small smiley face inside the burn scar.

“Jesus, your hands are freezing.” George has barely finished the drawing when Avery takes his hands between his own, squeezing his fingers between the warmth of his palms. “Don’t you have any circulation?”

George shrugs, his mouth suddenly feeling too dry to speak.

“You need to invest in some gloves or something,” Avery says.

“I’ll remember that,” George says weakly. “Hey - um - What time is it?” Avery turns their arms so his watch is facing George. The front of the watch is cracked, and if you listen too closely you can hear an incessant  _ tick, tick, ticking _ that would drive even the sanest man crazy. But it still works. That’s what’s important. “Fuck. Eddie’s gonna be here soon. I gotta go.”

Avery drops his hands, disappointed. “Oh. Yeah, right. I should probably start walking home, anyway.”

“Sorry,” George says with a sad smile.

He watches closely as Avery stumbles to his feet, brushing off his jeans. Not that it matters. They were already dirty, and he’s sure they’ll stay that way for long after.

“Hey,” Avery says suddenly, “before you go, do you think you could help me study for Miss Dunhill’s quiz tomorrow?”

“Sure.” George grabs his backpack, slinging it over his shoulders as he follows Avery’s lead and scrambles to his feet. “We can go over the study guide at lunch.”

“Cool,” Avery smiles. “I’ll see you then.”

George forces his feet to move. No matter how much he wants to stay and talk longer, he knows it’s a bad idea. If Eddie can’t find him and goes home without him, Sonia will have a complete breakdown. He doesn’t think he can handle the headache that would cause. Or the fury it would cause Robert.

He’s only been waiting for a handful of minutes when Eddie comes around the corner. The truth is, Eddie’s not that bad. He’s the kindest person he lives with, though it’s not like that’s a hard spot to claim, and George knows he tries hard to be George’s friend. It makes him feel a little bad for giving him the silent treatment. But a part of George can’t help resenting Eddie.

He knows he doesn’t mean to, but it does feel as if he’s trying to replace Bill. Which he supposes is a bit unfair of him to dump on Eddie. It’s not like he has any way of knowing about George’s past. But George can’t help it. No matter how hard he tries to convince himself to befriend Eddie, all he can think about is how Eddie is trying to replace that slot in his heart for his older brother.

“Ready to go?”

“Mhm.” George follows him silently, the gentle breeze ruffling his hair as he falls into step with the older boy.

“How was your day?” Eddie asks.

Eddie asks him that everyday, and everyday George’s response is, “fine.” He knows it disappoints Eddie, but there’s nothing he wants to share with him.

“You do anything exciting?” Eddie pushes.

“Same as always,” George says blandly.

Eddie falls silent after that. Somehow it’s even more painful than the sad excuse they have for conversation. But George isn’t about to be the one to break it.

He isn’t expecting anything else from Eddie for the rest of the walk home, but they’re about halfway there when Eddie asks, “do you have any friends at school?”

George stops suddenly, wheeling around on Eddie to fix him with a wide-eyed stare. “What?”

“Like, someone you talk to.”

“I know what a friend is, Eddie.”

Eddie flushes in embarrassment. “Right. I was just wondering.”

George hesitates. “No.” As kind as Eddie is, he can’t bring himself to trust him. If he told him about Avery, he doesn’t doubt that within a week the news would be out to Sonia and Robert.

“Oh,” Eddie mumbles. “Well - I mean - Myra helps out with the youth group at church sometimes. I’m sure she could introduce you to some of the other kids.”

“I’m okay.” Sonia had forced George to attend the after school youth group program a handful of times. George would rather tear his own ears off than have to attend one more time. Besides, he doesn’t think any of the kids there would understand his situation as well as Avery does. He hasn’t told him anything - nothing serious, at least - but he gets the sense that Avery  _ knows _ . Not about the kidnapping, maybe, but what it’s like to be afraid of your own home.

“Right,” Eddie murmurs. “Well, the offer stands if you change your mind.”

“Thanks.”

He’s about to continue on when Eddie suddenly pipes up again, “I was just - I was just wondering, because there’s this new kid at school and I think he wants to be my friend. But my mom would go batshit, ya know.”

George suddenly feels terrible about lying to Eddie. He knows it’s just as risky for Eddie to tell him about this as it is for George to tell Eddie about Avery. For all he knows, George could go blabbering to Sonia and within the hour Eddie would be getting a lecture about hanging around the wrong sort of people.

But George isn’t gonna do that. He might resent Eddie, but he doesn’t hate him.

“Just don’t tell your mom,” he says softly.

Eddie’s eyes widen, as if he had never really thought about that option before. “But if she finds out-”

“Look,” George says, “you can either take the risk, or be miserable for the rest of your life. If you want to be this guy’s friend, you should go for it.”

Eddie goes quiet, staring down at his feet as if his worn out sneakers might have the answers he’s looking for. Finally, he says, “I’m not miserable.” But they both know it’s a lie.

-

That night - or morning, he supposes, it’s nearly one now - George finds himself still wide awake. The only light in his room comes from the night light in the far corner. The bulb is dying, and George has been too afraid to ask Robert or Sonia to replace it, but it’s just enough light for him to make out the paper boat in his hands. It’s crumpled and worn, torn in multiple places, but George refuses to throw it out.

Sometimes he thinks that’s pathetic. It’s basically trash by this point. Most people wouldn’t recognize it as a boat, not to mention it wouldn’t even float if he did set it out in a storm. It has one purpose in life and it can’t even do that anymore.

But it’s his last link to his real family. How could he throw something like that out? Even if it is pathetic. Even if it is nothing more than a crumpled piece of paper.

He likes to think that if, by some miracle, he ever did find his family again, the boat could be used as a sort of proof. Even if it’s not recognizable as a boat, the  _ S.S. Georgie _ is still obvious across the side. It’s a little faded now, but there’s no second guessing what it says. He knows without a doubt that Bill, at the very least, would recognize it.

But wishful thinking like that  _ is _ pathetic.

He sniffles quietly, and it’s only then that he registers the tears dripping down his cheeks. He hurries to scrub them away with the end of his shirt. But it’s no use. They just keep coming.

When he was back home, he used to have nightmares pretty frequently. Always about monsters with big teeth and glowing eyes, ones that waited for him in the shadows and grabbed him when his back was turned.

He woke up crying and terrified most nights. But Bill’s room was always just across the hall, and he was never angry to be woken up at odd hours of the night. He always let George cuddle up next to him and pick out whatever book he wanted. Bill would read to him until he fell back asleep. Despite how upset he had been beforehand, those are some of George’s favorite memories. Bill’s stutter would get worse when he was tired, not to mention reading out loud tended to trip him up, so George is sure Bill hated having to struggle through the stories George would hand him. But he did it anyway.

But the nightmares he had back then are nothing compared to the nightmare he lives through everyday now. And it’s not like he has anyone to lull him back to sleep now. Except maybe-

Before he can argue with himself, he swings his feet over the edge of the bed and shoves the paper boat back under the mattress. Then, quiet as a mouse, tiptoes out of his room.

Eddie’s door is shut tight, and for a moment George considers going back to his room. Maybe this is stupid. He probably doesn’t want to be woken up.

He grabs the doorknob anyway.

Sure enough, Eddie is fast asleep. George shuts the door quietly behind him before padding over to his side.

“Eddie,” he whispers, shaking his shoulder a little. The force of talking makes his voice shake, and he feels a fresh onslaught of tears coming on. “Eddie.”

“Hm?” Eddie blinks blurrily at him. “George? Wha - What are you doing? What time is it?” George shrugs. He sniffles again. Fast as lightning, Eddie’s sitting upright, his eyebrows pinched in concern. “Are you crying? What’s wrong?”

“I - I had a nightmare,” George says softly.

“Oh.” Eddie’s shoulders visibly relax. “I’m sorry. Do you want to talk about it?”

George shakes his head. “Can you read to me?”

“Yeah, sure.” Eddie scrambles to turn on the desk lamp by his bed, immediately bathing the room in a warm, golden glow. “What do you want to read?”

George heads silently to the bookshelf across the room. It’s small - Sonia does background checks on any books they want to buy, just to make sure they aren’t exposed to any  _ adult material _ \- but George still recognizes a handful of them. He pulls out an old, beat up copy of  _ The Lion, The Witch, And The Wardrobe _ .

Eddie blinks curiously when George hands it to him. “I think this was my dad’s copy.” He runs the tips of his fingers over the title and, for the first time, George thinks he knows how Eddie’s feeling.

It’s on the tip of his tongue to tell him about Bill. About how he had read him all seven books when they were kids. “I’m really sorry about what happened to him,” he says instead, voice still thick with tears.

Eddie shrugs. “It happens. I was little, I don’t remember him much.” He smiles up at George, patting the spot next to him. “C’mon.”

George crawls into the bed, curling up next to Eddie’s side as he cracks open the book and starts to read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter!! Please leave a comment below, I love hearing your guys' thoughts.

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter is 6k words and Bill Denbrough isn't in it once and I'm incredibly sad about it. But the next chapter will be all about him (and some of the other Losers) so stay tuned to check it out!
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed the first chapter! I've had this idea for awhile and I'm super excited that it's finally seeing the life of day. However updates might be slow, as I'm still dealing with some personal stuff and I have a feeling these chapters are going to be on the longer side. I apologize ahead of time.
> 
> Please leave a comment! I would love to hear your thoughts!
> 
> Tumblr:  
> Main: @im-a-rocketman  
> Writing/IT: @s-oulpunk


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